


A Defense of Territory

by chaineddove



Series: Disconnect-verse [1]
Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yeong-ha comes to check out the competition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Defense of Territory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stillskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillskies/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Disconnect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/351091) by [stillskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillskies/pseuds/stillskies). 



> Another companion to Disconnect. Someone kill me now.

_Listen, go or don’t go; that’s your call. But if you’re going to be this way, I have several hundred better things to do than watch you sulk. Like watching grass grow. Or answering my uncle’s e-mail from two months ago. Or maybe reading the dictionary._

And it is partly that accusation – Ko Yeong-ha does not _sulk_ ; the thought is utterly laughable – and partly his own morbid curiosity that drive him to Tokyo. He gives the taxi driver the address and sits back, watching dispassionately as wet cars and people and buildings scroll by, like some sort of gray and dreary silent film. He wonders again exactly what he will do when he finally gets there; he’s so rarely unsure, but the novelty of the situation does not fully mask his underlying discomfort. What, indeed.

_If you really don’t care, then why are you reading my e-mail over my shoulder?_

_Because,_ Yeong-ha had wanted to say, _no one dismisses **me**._ He hadn’t said it; even inside his head, he’d known he shouldn’t say it, and he has been better about filtering his acerbic, bitter, or sometimes downright cruel commentary before it comes out of his mouth and causes another scandal.

But it is that e-mail which he was never meant to see that prepares him for the young man who opens the door with a politely confused look on his face. Dark hair in an unimaginative cut, Yeong-ha notes. A somewhat weak chin, rather bland eyes. Not painful to look at, he supposes, if there’s no other option, but that’s really all that can be said. “Is that all?” he says with a small, self-satisfied smile; there is no way this mouse of a boy can replace him, and that is all that he has come to ascertain, really. “I’m disappointed; he could have done better.” Fortunately, acerbic commentary is just fine when there’s no interpreter to botch it up; besides, he doesn’t have any interest in being nice in this situation.

The young man says something – Yeong-ha doesn’t speak Japanese, but he can imagine it is in the vein of, _Who the hell are you?_ Yeong-ha smiles – his most brilliant smile, the one that makes his fans swoon and makes Su-yeong proclaim that really, he’s going to gag, any second now – and the young man at the door looks dazed and a little taken aback. “Yes,” he says, in a conversational tone, “I’m sure you’d love to know.” He doubts foreigners with fabulous hair often come knocking. The stranger looks flummoxed.

Yeong-ha uses this moment of shock to nudge the door open and walk into the apartment. The young man follows him in, his voice increasingly more agitated. Yeong-ha ignores him as he unlaces his shoes and studies the small living space critically. It is empty and very clean and not at all what he expected; if not for the goban prominently displayed in front of the couch, he might almost think he accidentally wandered into the wrong apartment. The young man is shouting now; when he tries grabbing Yeong-ha’s arm, though, he turns around a levels a truly impressive glare. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he says calmly. “Besides, it isn’t _your_ apartment, now is it? Yashiro-pro wouldn’t like it if you accosted an overseas guest.”

The young man snatches his hand away as though he has been burned. Then he says something very quickly; Yeong-ha can pick out nothing but Yashiro’s name, but by the look of humiliated panic dawning on the idiot’s face, replacing the anger, it seems he’s gotten the right idea. “That’s right,” Yeong-ha says, even though he knows he will not be understood. “If anyone is going to kick me out, it isn’t going to be _you_ , believe me.” He isn’t only talking about the apartment; the idea that someone like this could fill a space he once occupied is downright insulting.

He turns away and heads deeper into the apartment. By virtue of a lucky guess, he finds the kitchen, opens a cabinet, grabs a cup. He goes hunting for teabags and, having found them, fills the cup from the hot water dispenser conveniently placed on the counter. Through this all, the young man stands in the kitchen doorway, watching him with incredulity and holding his cell phone as if he’s uncertain whether or not to use it. Yeong-ha is quietly relieved when he puts it back in his pocket; bullying his way through the encounter is all very well, but he doesn’t fancy the idea of explaining himself to the Japanese police.

His tea steeped to the proper consistency, he discards the teabag and strolls out into the living room. Like a shadow, the young man follows him. Yeong-ha settles on the painfully yellow couch and elegantly crosses one leg over the other. He sips his tea. He waits. The young man huffs and drops into the narrow armchair across from him, and proceeds to stare. Nonplussed, Yeong-ha stares back. After a few moments, his opponent, such as he is, lowers his gaze. There appear to be tears in his eyes.

“Don’t feel too bad,” Yeong-ha says genially. “He would have shattered your poor, tender little heart into a thousand tiny pieces. Really, I’m doing you a favor.”

The young man seems to have nothing at all to say to that, if his trembling shoulders are any indication.

Yeong-ha finishes his tea and sets his cup down on the collapsible plastic table which is the only piece of furniture in the room save the hideous couch, the equally hideous armchair, and the rather nice goban. The silence is so profound that the sound of ceramic on plastic is as loud as a gunshot. “Well,” Yeong-ha says cheerfully, “this is fun.”

He hears a key in the lock. The young man’s head jerks up; Yeong-ha makes a show of his disinterest, leaning back against the sofa cushions and smiling softly. He does love a bit of drama. Yashiro comes into view. He looks tired and angry – par for the course – but not at all surprised. Yeong-ha keeps right on smiling. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he says. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“In the neighborhood, my ass.” Yashiro turns to the other man in the room, acknowledging him for the first time. There is a brief exchange – Yeong-ha is a little disappointed when there is no shouting – before the young man storms out. Yashiro still stands in the middle of the room, his expression carefully neutral.

“Somehow,” Yeong-ha offers, “I don’t think he’s going to be answering your calls.”

Yashiro shakes his head, turns around, and heads into the kitchen. Yeong-ha collects his empty cup and follows him. He deposits it in the sink as Yashiro reaches into the refrigerator for a bottle of beer. Finally, Yashiro sighs and asks, “Did you really have to do that?”

“No,” Yeong-ha admits readily, “but I did it.”

Silently, Yashiro takes three large gulps of his beer, eyes holding Yeong-ha’s the entire time. Unlike the unfortunate young man, he has the spine not to look away. Yeong-ha walks up to him, placing one arm on either side of his hips, pinning him against the counter. He watches for the change in Yashiro’s expression, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the darkening of his irises, feels the hitch of his breath. The question he doesn’t need to ask is already answered – he could have him this instant, against the kitchen counter if he wanted. The feeling is incredibly powerful, and the faint, dissatisfied worry which has been eating at him for months fades away. “You’re terribly rude, you know,” he murmurs. “I’m still waiting for the grand tour. Your little friend didn’t show me around.”

“Nothing to see,” Yashiro says tersely.

“All right,” Yeong-ha says genially, leaning in close enough to taste the beer on Yashiro’s breath. “We don’t need a bed, anyway.”


End file.
